The Fallout
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: Peggy is in desperate need of a friend. She calls Stan late at night and tells him what happened. Post "The Better Half."
1. Chapter 1

After a long day of drawing endless tubs of Fleishmann's margarine, Stan Rizzo had konked out on the office sofa. His right arm hurt, and his mind swam with visions of dancing cows and glistening pats of oleo. Sleep came easily to him, and he welcomed it for the first time in months.

Since the night he and Peggy kissed during the "lost weekend," Stan hadn't exactly gotten much beauty sleep. He was still haunted by the death of his cousin Robbie, and the horrible phone call he'd gotten from his mother the evening the family found out about the tragedy. He tried not to think about it; the pain was too great remembering her shaking voice. Robby had been like the kid brother he never had.

He tried blocking out his grief by thinking about Peggy. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered her sweet lips parted against his, that brief moment where their breaths mingled and he could feel her body leaning into his. He'd dreamt of that moment for years now; never thinking it could even be possible without her smacking him or yelling at him. Things were weird.

Looking back, it was a really lousy idea to fuck that weird hippie chick that had showed up in his office a half hour after the incident between Peggy and him. Feeling dejected, horny and drugged up, the hippie girl had seduced him with a single, cryptic sentence: "I'm here to make you feel good." It did, for about three seconds. It ended as abruptly as it started, when Stan realized his office door was open and the spell was broken by Peggy stomping down the hallway and yelling that she was going home. Stan looked up into the hippie's eyes and saw none of the tenderness that he'd gotten from Peggy. This girl was a poor substitute. Margarine to Peggy's butter.

And like that, his raging boner was gone. The girl looked at him with disappointment.

"We have to stop this."

Immediately afterward, Stan felt worse. Peggy was right. This was bullshit.

The phone rang, jostling Stan out of his sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his clock. 12:12 AM.

_Jesus Christ, who could be calling at this hour?_

He picked up the phone, and thought he heard someone sniffling.

"Hello?" he asked, tentatively.

"Stan?"

"Peggy? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I need to talk."

"Now?" Stan sighed. The last thing he wanted right now was another gentle denial of his feelings, but he was genuinely worried. "Where are you?"

"Down the hall," she replied, sniffling some more. "I can't go back home. I don't have anyone."

"Look, I'll be right over. Explain later," Stan said.

Stan found Peggy sitting on her office sofa, sobbing. He sat down next to her and wrapped her in a hug.

"Tell me what happened, Peewee," he said to her gently.

"I stabbed him," she choked.

"You WHAT?"

"It was an accident. I stabbed Abe, I thought he was an intruder. He snuck up behind me in the bedroom while two people were fighting outside. I was scared and didn't know. It went right in his stomach."

"Jesus."

Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair a greasy mess. The sight of her all disheveled and devastated was a bit jarring; she'd taken to dressing so professionally of late. She looked sad and scared: two words he never thought he'd have to associate with Peggy Olson.

"I can't spend another night in that place," she said, winding down. "Abe insisted we go there and fix it up, but when rocks come flying through your bedroom window and junkies poop on your stairs…"

"Peggy, you don't have to go back there tonight. Are you okay?"

"No. We're done. He ended it in the ambulance."

"I see." Stan leaned back on the sofa and tried to take in Peggy's story. She was not quite drunk enough to tell him about Ted as well, so she wisely refrained from doing so. Stan knew Peggy well enough to understand how low she felt.

"I had no one else to talk to," she finally whispered. Stan felt horrible for his friend. She'd never looked this broken before.

"Come on, Peggy, lie down. Get some rest," he said calmly. "You really look like shit."

Peggy laughed weakly, put down her glass of scotch, and obeyed. She put her head in his lap. He stroked her shoulder and hair gently as her trembling body began to slowly relax.

Stan matched his breathing to hers, feeling the weight of her head on his thighs. At first, the sensation of her so close to him again kept his mind swimming, but as she drifted further asleep, he began to follow suit. Suddenly the thought of them being discovered by Don or Ted jolted him awake.

"Peggy, hey…" he whispered to her before she fell asleep too deeply. He remembered the morning he had once woken her with a coach's whistle, and smiled at the memory. She woke with a snort.

"We can't spend the night on your sofa," he said gently. "It'll kill my back."

"You're right. I should go home."

"No…come on, you can stay the night at my pad. No funny business, I swear. I'll sleep on the sofa. But you're not going back to that shit palace, especially with that fink."

Peggy nodded. She was too exhausted to protest, and Stan only lived six blocks away. The night was humid and hot, and the idea of going back up to the UWS frightened her. They arrived at Stan's flat twenty minutes later.

Stan got out a couple of sheets for the sofa and an old work shirt and a pair of shorts for her to sleep in. They were comically large on her small frame, but she looked cute in them. He changed into his boxers and a t-shirt. Stan had a very small studio apartment, with the bed in one corner behind a bookshelf partition.

"Are you sure you'll be comfortable on the sofa?" She looked at the width of it, and knew it wouldn't be pleasant for someone of his height.

"I'll be fine. Get some sleep. Are you comfortable?" He turned on the fan, offering sweet relief to the sweltering room.

"Yeah. Thank you."

"Good night, Peggy. I'll set the alarm for quarter to 8, okay?" He settled on the sofa, his long legs and wide, muscled arms spilling off of the sides. He looked miserable. Peggy felt a pang of guilt.

"Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"Come to bed."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You'll be more comfortable."

Stan walked across the room and lay in bed with her. She curled up against him, wrapping her arm around his chest. He held her against him, stroking her hair gently, feeling his heart pounding against his chest at the thought of her in his bed. His sanctum sanctorum, the place where he'd spent countless nights dreaming about her right there, with him.

"I love you," he mouthed inaudibly in her hair, half hoping it would awaken her.

She answered with a snore.


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm rang at 7.45. Stan and Peggy woke with a start. She realized that she had wrapped her legs around his, and sheepishly removed them.

"Morning, Sport," Stan grumbled. "Don't feel you need to move for my sake," he halfheartedly joked.

"Mmmm." Peggy, bleary-eyed and groggy, rubbed at her face. She looked up at Stan's face, tired and vaguely grouchy. "Five hours of solid sleep. Just like Beans."

Stan chuckled. She was referring to the long-ago Heinz debacle, when they would stay up at the office until at least 3 AM every night to get work done, for the never-ending presentations with ol' Beans. He stretched out a little and turned to face her. He wanted to savor the moment – perhaps the only moment he'd ever have– of waking up to Peggy Olson next to him in bed. He wasn't disappointed when she smiled up at him sleepily.

For a brief second, he felt tempted to hold her against him and make love to her, but he didn't think this was the right time. She'd just gone through something traumatic, and he thought it might be wiser to take her advice and let her sort things out for herself without adding too much to her confused state. He knew for certain he wasn't interested in being her rebound lover. She and Abe had been together a long time, and while he knew things had been rocky between them, it was still three years.

It was, however, increasingly hard for him to resist those hopeful eyes. He knew deep down she wanted him to make a move on her, to remind her that she was still desirable. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he stroked her hair gently for a few minutes as they slowly awakened.

"Were you comfortable? Did you sleep okay?" he asked. The concern in his voice softened her even more. She felt her heart begin to pound, increasing with every stroke of her head by his large, surprisingly soft hands.

"Yes," she replied, snuggling against his side while he continued to stroke her hair. "You have a very comfortable bed."

Stan settled down a little bit into the pillow, feigning comfort. He had to piss like a racehorse, but he wanted to savor just a few more minutes with Peggy beside him.

"This is true," he chuckled. "You definitely look less like roadkill this morning. But, no offense, you might want to take a shower before work today."

Peggy laughed. It felt good to laugh, after all she'd been through in the past 48 hours. Stan swallowed and sat upright, swinging his long legs over the bed. The cool, bare wooden floor felt good.

"You're right. And I must stink."

"You'll feel much better. Clean towel is on the rack. Want me to make some breakfast?" Stan asked, stretching out his calves. "I have some bacon and eggs in the fridge, believe it or not." He headed toward the bathroom and shut the door.

"You're kidding," laughed Peggy. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I was in Boy Scouts, so I definitely know my way around a frying pan. I could probably teach you how to hunt down and cook a deer, too, if you ever want to learn how." He yelled back at her.

"I've never seen a deer," she said, truthfully. The toilet flushed and she heard the sound of the running sink. _God, how much had he had to drink?_ She wondered, laughing at the bizarre, domestic intimacy of being so close to Stan's bathroom.

"You aren't missing much."

He chuckled as he walked out of the bathroom to the kitchenette and pulled out the eggs and bacon and put them on the stove.

She walked into the bathroom and began her shower. The cool water felt wonderful on her heated skin. She was surprised at how neat and tidy Stan's apartment was. After all these years of working with him, she shouldn't have been terribly surprised – he kept his work space clean – but she always kind of assumed all men were slobs. Not Stan. Everything was in order and in its place. His place was miniscule, but he didn't have much in the way of possessions, aside from some of his paintings hung neatly on the wall and a myriad of books on the partition shelf. She felt cozy here. Safe. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in…years.

Deep down she knew Abe was a wimp. After getting stabbed and not even telling the police what the description of the assailant was, the red flags began to appear. As violence escalated on their street, she had been running on adrenaline and terror, knowing that Abe was about as combative as a wet rag. At least Stan was a big, strong guy.

She stepped out of the shower, toweled her hair, and looked in the mirror. There was no sense in going to work at this point. She stepped into her dress and looked at the giant work draped over the towel rack. She had to admit she liked being wrapped up in Stan's clothes. The shirt smelled of Old Spice, like him. She came out of the bathroom, the towel wrapped around her head. The smell of scrambled eggs and bacon were incredible. Stan had made her a pot of coffee, too.

"Tell ya what. I have an uncle in Brooklyn with a large garage, and I'm sure Lenny would let you store your stuff there for a couple of weeks until you get settled. It's in a safe neighborhood, you'll be fine. I can help you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and he has a truck he can let me borrow. I can call him and help you out, if you want. But I don't want you ever to have to sleep there again, Peggy. If anything happened to you, I'd…I can't stand the thought. Don't take it the wrong way, you're one tough broad. But…that neighborhood is dangerous." He seethed at the idea that Abe had pressured Peggy into taking that apartment in the first place. And that she'd been naïve enough to go along with it.

"Thank you," she said softly. She was relieved that she hadn't yet unpacked most of her apartment. The boxes of everything else still sat in an empty apartment across the hall. Deep down she'd kept them in hopes of being able to leave, although she had a hard time admitting it.

Stan prepped some plates and handed her breakfast. He poured a cup of coffee for her. She chuckled when she realized it was in a CGC mug that Stan had swiped from the Creative lounge.

"I'm calling in sick. Let's get this over with," she said.

"I think it's a good idea. I'll call Uncle Lenny and arrange for the truck," he replied, buttering his toast.

Butter. Real butter, she noticed.


End file.
